


Dangerous, Lovely, Delicate

by tei



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Knifeplay, M/M, Vampire Sex, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 04:32:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15477741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tei/pseuds/tei
Summary: As far as John can tell, Sherlock is his boyfriend, and Sherlock is a vampire; he seems to have some sort of deeply seated horror at the idea of combining the two.Or at least, he says he does. The way he’s currently got his face buried so far into the curve of John’s neck that it’s beginning to cut off his air supply says something rather different.





	Dangerous, Lovely, Delicate

**Author's Note:**

> Contains: biting, more biting, and things regular mortals probably shouldn't do with a knife in bed.

It’s not like this is the first time Sherlock has smelled him. 

Oh, he tries to disguise it. It’s adorable, really: Sherlock will nuzzle into John’s neck, trying to pretend that all he’s after is a good pre-sex cuddle. John is expected to not notice the way Sherlock’s nose rests unerringly right beside his carotid artery, the way his breathing starts to regulate in time with John’s pulse, the way he sometimes pushes himself away looking dazed and breathing hard. 

And they’ve discussed it before, or discussed it as much as anything can be discussed with Sherlock Holmes as an unwilling participant in the conversation. As far as John can tell, Sherlock is his boyfriend, and Sherlock is a vampire; he seems to have some sort of deeply seated horror at the idea of combining the two. 

Or at least, he says he does. The way he’s currently got his face buried so far into the curve of John’s neck that it’s beginning to cut off his air supply says something rather different. 

And God knows John has gotten good at getting to the bottom of things Sherlock doesn’t want to talk about. So, he takes his hand and starts rubbing his way down Sherlock’s back, turning into him and rubbing his groin into Sherlock’s to make his intentions very clear. And when Sherlock moans a little and pushes back, John says, “been fantasizing about you sinking your fangs into me.”

Sherlock stiffens and pulls away so quickly that the loss of contact is almost physically painful. “John,” he snarls, “ _no._ ”

John raises his eyebrows, trying to keep his tone mild. “What do you mean, no?” He asks. “They’re my fantasies. I think I would know what they’re about.”

Sherlock’s eyes squeeze shut. “Please don’t,” he says. 

John sighs, and quickly gives up the idea of having sex any time soon. This conversation needs to happen, and now is as good a time as any. Of course, he doesn't _need_ Sherlock to feed from him; he just wants to know why the very idea seems so upsetting to him. And, if he’s being completely honest with himself, he’s a little hurt. It’s ridiculous to be upset that a dangerous supernatural creature doesn’t want to eat you, but… well, John has come to accept certain things about himself, and it causes him no cognitive dissonance whatsoever to be hurt by Sherlock’s reluctance to drink his blood.

He pushes himself to sitting, and puts a hand on Sherlock’s head, starting to stroke through his curls. He tries to keep his voice gentle as he asks, “Okay, Sherlock, what’s going on with this? You know I don’t mind the blood-drinking thing. Hell, you know I think it’s hot. I just want to know why the idea of drinking from me is so repulsive to you. Am I not… I dunno, is there something… not good about my blood?”

Sherlock practically rockets up to a sitting position, looking furious. “ _No!_ ” he hisses. “There is nothing wrong with your-- your blood is-- god, John, your blood smells amazing. You smell like pine trees and gun oil and moonlight. Don’t _say_ things like that.”

John smiles a little. “Okay, I could have guessed as much from how much you like smelling me,” he said, and Sherlock looks down, seeming embarrassed. “What is it, then?” John goes on. “I’ve told you you can have it. I _want_ you to have it. I’ve seen you drink blood from a bag before, it’s not like you can’t stop once you’ve started. And you’ve licked blood off my cuts and scrapes before. What’s the difference?”

John can see Sherlock’s fists squeezed tight, every part of him radiating tension and frustration. 

“Sherlock,” he says, injecting just a little bit of authority into his tone, “tell me what’s going on.” He raises his chin and stares at Sherlock with every bit of military _obey-or-else_ he can muster. 

Sherlock lets out a sudden huff of air and snaps, “Haven’t I hurt you enough for one lifetime?”

It feels like being slapped, and a John recoils as if he has been. It takes him a moment to sort out his thoughts enough to speak. He lets the silence take over, let’s Sherlock see him processing. Finally, he says, “Emotionally? Point taken. I would have to say yes.” 

Sherlock looks pained, and John takes a deep breath. “Physically? Well, you don’t seem hesitant at all to experiment with… other types of pain in the bedroom.” He smiles a bit, knowing that Sherlock’s mind is being called back to delicious nights of rosy backsides and pinched nipples and rope burn, then continues, “how is this any different?”

“Because all those other things… aren’t dangerous,” says Sherlock. “Not really. This is dangerous. _I’m_ dangerous.”

John fights the mad urge to burst into laughter. Instead, he gently lifts himself up and places one knee on either side of Sherlock’s lap. He brings his face in close, so their foreheads are touching, and grabs the back of Sherlock’s head, pulling on a fistful of hair just enough for Sherlock to feel it. “God, you are,” he whispers. 

“I’m serious.” Sherlock’s voice sounds choked.

“So am I,” says John. “You told me that the very first time we came here. Just after we’d signed the lease. Remember?” He pushes gently on Sherlock’s chest, guiding his head back down onto the pillows. 

“Want to see some more?” Sherlock echoes, distantly. 

John nods, and starts kissing his way around Sherlock’s chest, biting at his nipples and speaking in between licks and sucks. “And I said yes. And I said yes again, when you told me what you are. And I loved it, still love it, every bit of it. If you want this, Sherlock… I want you to take it. I want you to have me in every way possible. And I want to have this piece of you.”

Sherlock is gasping and arching into his touch now, and John knows he has him. He pulls himself back up to caress Sherlock’s cheek and then holds his arm in front of Sherlock’s nose, the delicate flesh on the inside of his wrist feeling the tickle of the unnecessary breaths that Sherlock insists on taking, just for him. 

He feels Sherlock’s tongue dart out and lick a wet stripe down the length of his arm. His heart is pumping fast enough to power a marathon. 

“Yes,” moans Sherlock. “Okay, John, yes, I will, just—“ his eyes snap open and he suddenly jumps out of the bed and heads toward the stairs. 

“Sherlock?” John makes to follow him, but Sherlock calls out “Be back in a minute! Stay right there!” And John relaxes back onto the mattress. 

He closes his eyes and allows himself to anticipate what’s about to happen. He’s seen Sherlock’s fangs before, but rarely, and never in action. He wonders where Sherlock is going to bite him. Wrist would be easy to sip out of and to bandage afterwards, but would make it difficult to maintain full-body contact during the act, which John definitely wants. The neck looks good in the movies, sure, but getting the location right would be significantly trickier in reality, and would take a long time to heal. Shoulder, then. Yes, the back of the shoulder would be good, Sherlock on top of him and pinning him down, fangs sinking into the lateral extremity of his trapezius, yes yes—

“This is your safeword,” says Sherlock. 

John feels his breath hitch in his chest. Sherlock is standing at the foot of the bed, nude and hard, holding a silvery, ornate knife. It looks very old, but has clearly been kept in immaculate repair, and he can see the gleam at the edge of the blade where it has been recently sharpened. 

John groans. His cock is aching, and his whole body is crying out to be _consumed_ in a way he doesn’t even fully understand, and all he wants is Sherlock’s body pressing him down into the mattress. He doesn’t have time for this. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “The usual safeword. I don’t need to threaten you while you’re feeding from me, Sherlock, God, I trust you. Just come take me.” He spreads his legs wider, arching a little to expose his neck. 

It is clearly taking all of Sherlock’s self-control not to pounce, but he doesn’t. John feels like screaming. Then, Sherlock climbs onto the bed near John’s feet and starts crawling slowly up towards him, the knife still clutched in his right hand. “I know you trust me,” he rumbles, his voice making John feel, if possible, even weaker. “I love that you trust me. And it feels good to trust, right?” He arrives at the head of the bed, hands on either side of John’s shoulders and staring down at him intently. “To hand your life over to someone else. There’s nothing better. Let me feel that, John. Please.”

John feels, but can’t see, his hand being pried away from where he’s desperately holding onto the covers and pressed open. He feels the cool metal of the knife handle pushed into his palm. 

“Do this for me,” Sherlock whispers. 

John doesn’t trust himself to speak. He feels something inside him give, his walls crashing down. He raises the knife and presses the point to Sherlock’s throat, gently. Sherlock’s eyes close, and for a moment he looks peaceful and pure.

Then the fangs slide out. 

John expects to feel the sting of them straight away, expects Sherlock to immediately pin him down and take him like he’s obviously wanted to for god knows how long. Instead, he pushes his thighs apart and licks John’s cock into his mouth. 

Oh _god._ John lifts his head to watch, straightening his arm to keep the knife pressed into the side of Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock’s lips are obscenely stretched with the effort of not allowing the tips of his fangs to make contact with John’s skin, and the effort makes him gasp with every stroke. This is, like Sherlock said, dangerous— one slip, and John could be injured in a definitively unsexy way. But Sherlock is concentrated in exactly the same way he is when bent over a piece of evidence, and John just holds on and trusts and feels, and he’s writhing and barely able to prevent himself from pushing up into Sherlock’s mouth— not a good idea, under the circumstances— when Sherlock gently licks his way off and reaches for a bottle of lube. 

The knife hovers in the air between them, and John notices there are faint pink scratches on Sherlock’s neck where he moved against the point of contact as he sucked John “Sherlock,” he gasps, “are you ever going to get around to—“ 

Sherlock quiets him by placing a finger over his lips. “Let me,” he says. “I want to be inside you when I do it.”

Well, it’s not exactly like he’s going to say no to _that._

Sherlock strokes down his crack, his fingers circling his entrance but not pushing in. John is just about to moan and beg for him to just push in already when Sherlock says “John, the knife,” and John realizes he isn’t going to give it to him until he gets the knife back. He brings the knife back up, this time laying the full length of it against the front of Sherlock’s throat, as if readying for a slicing, not a stabbing. Sherlock grins obscenely at either the placement of the blade or the noise John makes when he pushes his fingers in— John can’t be sure because the feeling of Sherlock’s fingers slowly opening him up is too good, and that’s even without the visual of Sherlock’s fangs being reflected in the polished surface of the knife John is holding to his throat. 

“Christ, Sherlock, yes,” he gasps. “Come on, come in, please come in now, I’m so ready for you…” He has to yank the knife away as Sherlock swoops down to kiss him at that, just rough enough that he can feel the sharp edges but not rough enough to break the skin and god, John hopes he’s going to get some more of that later. He wants to taste the blood in his mouth at the same time Sherlock does, and see the look in his eyes as he learns what John feels like on his tongue. 

He’s so lost in sensation that he only notices Sherlock’s cock pushing into him once it breaches the tightness of his hole. John moans, and this time without being reminded, he brings the knife back to Sherlock’s throat and allows the point to dig into his skin just enough for Sherlock to gasp “yes, John, like that.”

Sherlock starts moving inside of him gently, more to make it easier for John to keep the knife in place than anything else. He’s planted his hands on either side of John’s chest so John can stare straight into his face, and when Sherlock says, “Ready?” the reverence in his eyes is nearly too much. 

“Kiss me again first,” John whispers. “Make me bleed.” 

Sherlock’s mouth crashes into his. This time he doesn’t hold back, and John can feel the fangs nicking the skin of his lips and tongue. It feels simultaneously like a stinging pain and like tiny sparkles of pleasure bursting into his mouth. He pushes into the kiss and tastes copper, and Sherlock clearly does too, because his tongue starts lapping around at the inside of John’s mouth and his hips snap more forcefully, and _oh_ there had been so much going on with the fangs that it had distracted him from the fact that he is being quite thoroughly fucked. 

“God yes, I’m ready,” he says into Sherlock’s mouth. “Sherlock— do it.”

Sherlock does. 

He chooses the left shoulder, possibly in the hopes that John will be able to keep holding the knife with his right, but the wave of pleasure that crests when John feels Sherlock’s teeth pierce skin and muscle and capillaries and veins is so intense that John drops it anyway. In an instant, the sharp pain of the intrusion is replaced by Sherlock’s lips locking over the punctures and starting to suck, warm and strong. 

“Sherlock,” he gasps. He wants to be able to find the words to describe what this feels like. It feels like the dose of painkiller that knocks you out after you’ve been shot, when you’re only mortal. It feels like taking aim and getting the bad guy right where you wanted to. It feels like thinking you’re going to die and then realizing for the first time in years that you don’t actually want to, and then getting to live afterwards. It feels like that same thing, but with someone else. 

Instead, he just says, “I could stay like this forever.”

Sherlock continues gently rolling his hips, but he takes his mouth off of John’s shoulder to say, “and that’s the effect of a vampire bite. That’s why we’re so dangerous. Nobody ever died of a vampire bite who wasn’t happy about it, at least towards the end.” 

John just sighs contentedly and tries to pull Sherlock’s head back down towards the wound. Sherlock pulls back. “Your knife, John.” 

John picks the knife back up and Sherlock returns to lapping at the bite, now snapping his hips hard. He moans when the blade makes contact and, through the contented haze of the bite, John has an idea. He forces his eyes open and puts his mind back on track enough to position the tip of the knife at the very top point of Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock is gasping and bucking, obviously reading John’s intention. John presses hard enough to break the skin and starts dragging the blade down and diagonally, towards Sherlock’s nipple, passing over exactly the spot where, on his own body, the bullet had passed clear through him. 

Sherlock makes a sound that could barely be classified as human— well, no reason for it to be, under the circumstances— and comes. John can feel the slick of Sherlock’s come inside him, and the wetness of the blood dripping from Sherlock’s gash onto his chest, and and above it all the delicious rough warm (how is it warm? It must be John’s own body heat, refracted back to him) wet of Sherlock’s mouth on his shoulder taking one more long pull of his blood before John follows him over the edge, and then for a while everything is black and still. 

John opens his eyes to stare into Sherlock’s. Sherlock has covered him with a blanket, and is pressed up against the left side of his body with the knife lying safely on the bedside table. “You’re okay,” he says, half question, half reassurance. 

“Okay?” John huffs. “I just… blacked out from an orgasm. Yeah, I’m okay.” 

Sherlock lets out a breath. “I didn’t think I’d hurt you,” he says, “but I wanted to be sure.” He lowers his head and starts lapping at the two little punctures on John’s shoulder, which are still leaking a little blood. It feels different than it had during the sex, less overwhelming and more comforting, and John relaxes into it, his mind wandering unbidden to images of animals grooming each other with their tongues and wondering if they ever feel quite like this. 

Suddenly he remembers. “I did, though,” he says.

“Hmm?”

“Hurt you. I cut you.”

Sherlock lifts his head, smiling dizzily. “Yes, you did,” he agrees, and shifts his shoulders so that John can see where he’d dragged the knife through Sherlock’s skin. It’s almost closed already, looking like it had happened a few days ago, not a few minutes. Damn vampires. How is it fair for one being to simultaneously be dead, and have supernatural healing powers?

“Don’t worry,” says Sherlock. “It’ll leave a scar.” He’s still beaming, now looking down at the line on his chest like it’s a piece of art he’s very fond of. 

John smiles. “And mine?”

Sherlock casts a glance over the area before resuming lapping at John’s shoulder. “Probably not,” he says. “I’d have to go a bit deeper for that. Do you want one?”

“God, yes.”

Sherlock smiles, flashing just a hit of fang, then lets them recede and nuzzles down into John’s neck. “Next time, then.”


End file.
